I have already decided on a few Resolutions for 2009:
* Post to blog more than once a month.
* Do not commence each blog post with a pathetic excuse about why it's been so long since last blog post.
* Hone my skills of selectively ignoring my boss
* Get some exercise
* Find an off-ramp from present career track
* Keep all creatures in my care, four- and two-legged, alive.
* Keep a houseplant alive for at least three months. Cactus does not count.
(No, seriously, I have a black thumb. I once killed an aloe plant.)
Not a bad start: the secret to realistic goals is measurable standards - and low ones.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Demmy
Oh gawd, a blog post about a cat on a Friday night. I am the working definition of Lame, right?
But there is a story I want to share with all five of you who read this thing.
Once upon a time, in a land far far away, about 100 klicks downstream from Chernobyl, there lived a Young Lady in an apartment building with some fellow expats. And one day, some local girls showed up on the neighbor's doorstep asking for some sausage to feed a kitten they'd found. The Man of the House said 'oh no way, we are not taking in a stray cat, we are not encouraging this.' He went out on some errands, and of course everyone else went outside to see the kitten.
The kitten, it turns out, would not have been able to eat that sausage. Her eyes weren't even open. Her mother and her siblings had been beaten to death by some little hooligans, and this little furball had been smacked across the head and left for dead.
Everyone brought the kitten inside. The Man of the House returned from his errands, took one look at the her, and said, "You'd better feed that thing or it's gonna die."
The Lady of the House found a hair-coloring kit bottle, put some milk in it, and tried feeding the little patient. When that was successful, they got some antibiotics from another neighbor, mixed it with the milk, and kept nursing the kitten with the hair-coloring bottle. The Young Lady said that if the kitten survived, she'd take her home when she was strong enough.
That was over fifteen years ago.
The kitten got named "Demmy". The story behind that is kind of long, so I usually just tell people it's because she could fit in a demitasse cup when she was found. No one believes that, of course; in her finest form she weighed nearly 15 pounds. My friends and family call her Monster Kitty, Psycho Kitty, Chernobyl Cat. My husband usually calls her Stupid Cat. I called her "organic alarm clock" for a long time, because she would not allow me to sleep in if her food bowl was empty.
This cat came into my life at the start of my career. I went from Eastern Europe to A Land Down Under, where I couldn't take her because it would have meant six months of quarantine. She lived with my brother during that time, and I think he fed her Purina Elvis Chow. I swear she doubled in bulk during those years.
Then I went back to the mainland to work at HQ for a while. Around that time, I also got hit with the first major depressive episode of my adult life. I hesitated to take Demmy back from my brother, because she seemed quite content with him. I came to realize that my apathy about bringing her home was part of my symptoms. As part of my therapy, I decided to take her back. Since then, she's been one of the barometers for my mental health. If I can take care of her, I can take care of me.
One element of my ongoing treatment was "Recumbent Feline Bibliotherapy": when I got too stressed out, upset, or just plain wiped out, I would lie on the sofa with a book. Demmy would come along within a few minutes and jump up to join me, and stretch out on my tummy or legs or wherever she felt like it. Stress, tension, anxiety (and usually, consciousness) all melt away in this state. She was like Prozac in a fur coat.
When I started dating the man who would become my husband, I almost quit him because he declared that he was Not A Cat Person. In his mind, you are either a Cat Person or a Dog Person, and he is firmly a Dog Person. I disagree: I believe you can be both, because I am. I grew up with two cats, two dogs, and two brothers. Most of them were quite enjoyable to live with. But with the lifestyle I was leading in my 20s (i.e., "Life? What Life, I Have A Job") I was ill-suited to have a dog. Cats are low-maintenance: they don't need to be walked and they can entertain themselves for hours at a stretch. Yes, I can see why some people would rather have a dog, but that doesn't mean you can't like cats too, I insisted. He didn't seem to believe me.
I gave him a chance anyway, and he gave me a chance, and readers, I married him. When we got engaged, I made clear to him that Demmy and I were a package deal. He consented to this, we all moved in together, and they achieved a certain detente. In his speech at the wedding, our Best Man said that he knew the relationship was serious when he heard my husband talking baby talk to the cat. My husband denies it to this day. ("I was using baby talk voice to call her a stupid ugly little beast, I swear!")
One month before we moved to Baltic Europe, I felt a lump near her ribcage. I took her to the vet, who said they'd take an x-ray while she was under anesthesia for her teeth-cleaning. When I went to pick her up, they'd shaved her belly and gone in to take out what they'd found on the x-ray.
The biopsy came back: cancer.
"We got it all, I'm sure of it," said the vet. You'll need to keep an eye on her, bring her back for x-rays again if you detect another lump. There's a little blur on the x-ray that we can't quite identify..." Gee doc, I'm moving to another continent, where I expect veterinary care to be about the standards of 'Medieval Barber', can you be a little more encouraging, please?
I couldn't think of what would be worse: having to put her to sleep before leaving for Europe, or going to Europe and having to put her down there if she relapsed. My husband tried to be sympathetic. He still didn't like Demmy, but he understood why I wasn't ready to give up on her. I decided to take the chance. She came with us.
No lumps came back. No ugly thoughts about Big Needles. Score one more lucky break for Demmy.
Fast-forward now through four years, two small children, and another international move. Once again, my mental health is under strain. Demmy blends into the furniture some days. She still has her routine: wake up the human, get breakfast, disappear; watch human leave; Human comes home! Meet human at door and pester her until dinner is served; disappear until miniature humans go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. During the summertime, she'll climb on my lap sometimes while we watch the Red Sox on TV. Otherwise, we could go through most of the day with five minutes' interaction, max. "Recumbent Feline Bibliotherapy" doesn't happen often with two preschoolers in the house.
Quality of Life: we haz it.
So the creature that was once a Beloved Source of Comfort was yet another entity that needs to be fed, watered, and cleaned up after. She had an edge over the kids: she doesn't usually wake me up in the middle of the night complaining of "bad crocodile dreams". She doesn't need clothing, shoes, or a college education. But when Mommy is working 45 hours a week and trying not to permanently scar two preschoolers, "low maintenance" is still maintenance.
A few months ago, I took a good look at her. She'd lost weight. She was drinking more water than ever. Her litter box was filling up faster, and she was missing it a lot. I felt around her rib cage carefully, when she would let me.
Lumps.
I was crying too much to make an appointment at the vet. I stalled and stalled for weeks. I did the math over and over in my head. This cat is fifteen years old. That's downright geriatric. Maybe it is her time after all.
When I finally took her in, they thought that nine pounds was a perfectly healthy weight. I tried explaining that this meant she'd lost one third of her body mass in a year. I told them about the cancer scare from six years ago. I told them about the water and the litter box. They agreed to blood tests.
Diabetes.
Treatable. Manageable. Still not great but at least it's not cancer.
Still, it brings up issues: Do you seriously expect me to give her shots? Twice a day???? I had visions of having to spend hours chasing her down, dodging and weaving around my kids with a needle in my hand. And having to climb into the rafters to keep the needles away from little hands. And oh, the ick factor of injections: would I have to wrestle with her, searching for a vein?
Then the ugliest question of all: how much is it going to cost? Do I have to add up how much her life is worth in terms of disposable income? Am I going to be the sort of jerk who puts her pet down for the sake of convenience? How many takeout lunches and lattes add up to keeping her alive?
It turns out that her insulin is not that expensive, and the single-use needles are just pennies apiece. I can take the used ones back to the vet for proper disposal. And she's gotten quite used to the shots - especially since she knows that food comes next. She's drinking less water, but she still misses the litter box on occasion. (When 900 years old you reach, pee as good, you will not, hm?) And she still gets weepy goop around her eyes, thanks to the injury she suffered when her mother and siblings were killed. She doesn't spend all day under my side of the bed. She even comes out to let the kids pet her once in a while.
And once again, this cat - who wasn't expected to live two more hours when we first found her - gets another lucky break. And I put off thoughts of The Big Needle for a while longer.
Here's the thing: I have never been around for the loss of a pet, not really. My brother's Beagle took her last trip to the vet when I wasn't home. The Irish Setter that was supposed to fill the void when my dad moved out went back to the breeder (because none of us were around consistently enough to properly housebreak her). The cats died when I was away for my sophomore and junior years of college. I've never had to make That Decision.
We found Demmy on Memorial Day weekend in 1993. I guesstimated her age at that point to be about two weeks. So I decided that her birthday, unofficially, would be Mothers Day. I feel as though I helped save her life fifteen years ago. I can't bear the thought of having to decide when to end it. Once again, I get a lucky break.
Oh gawd, a blog post about a cat on a Friday night. I am the working definition of Lame, right?
But there is a story I want to share with all five of you who read this thing.
Once upon a time, in a land far far away, about 100 klicks downstream from Chernobyl, there lived a Young Lady in an apartment building with some fellow expats. And one day, some local girls showed up on the neighbor's doorstep asking for some sausage to feed a kitten they'd found. The Man of the House said 'oh no way, we are not taking in a stray cat, we are not encouraging this.' He went out on some errands, and of course everyone else went outside to see the kitten.
The kitten, it turns out, would not have been able to eat that sausage. Her eyes weren't even open. Her mother and her siblings had been beaten to death by some little hooligans, and this little furball had been smacked across the head and left for dead.
Everyone brought the kitten inside. The Man of the House returned from his errands, took one look at the her, and said, "You'd better feed that thing or it's gonna die."
The Lady of the House found a hair-coloring kit bottle, put some milk in it, and tried feeding the little patient. When that was successful, they got some antibiotics from another neighbor, mixed it with the milk, and kept nursing the kitten with the hair-coloring bottle. The Young Lady said that if the kitten survived, she'd take her home when she was strong enough.
That was over fifteen years ago.
The kitten got named "Demmy". The story behind that is kind of long, so I usually just tell people it's because she could fit in a demitasse cup when she was found. No one believes that, of course; in her finest form she weighed nearly 15 pounds. My friends and family call her Monster Kitty, Psycho Kitty, Chernobyl Cat. My husband usually calls her Stupid Cat. I called her "organic alarm clock" for a long time, because she would not allow me to sleep in if her food bowl was empty.
This cat came into my life at the start of my career. I went from Eastern Europe to A Land Down Under, where I couldn't take her because it would have meant six months of quarantine. She lived with my brother during that time, and I think he fed her Purina Elvis Chow. I swear she doubled in bulk during those years.
Then I went back to the mainland to work at HQ for a while. Around that time, I also got hit with the first major depressive episode of my adult life. I hesitated to take Demmy back from my brother, because she seemed quite content with him. I came to realize that my apathy about bringing her home was part of my symptoms. As part of my therapy, I decided to take her back. Since then, she's been one of the barometers for my mental health. If I can take care of her, I can take care of me.
One element of my ongoing treatment was "Recumbent Feline Bibliotherapy": when I got too stressed out, upset, or just plain wiped out, I would lie on the sofa with a book. Demmy would come along within a few minutes and jump up to join me, and stretch out on my tummy or legs or wherever she felt like it. Stress, tension, anxiety (and usually, consciousness) all melt away in this state. She was like Prozac in a fur coat.
When I started dating the man who would become my husband, I almost quit him because he declared that he was Not A Cat Person. In his mind, you are either a Cat Person or a Dog Person, and he is firmly a Dog Person. I disagree: I believe you can be both, because I am. I grew up with two cats, two dogs, and two brothers. Most of them were quite enjoyable to live with. But with the lifestyle I was leading in my 20s (i.e., "Life? What Life, I Have A Job") I was ill-suited to have a dog. Cats are low-maintenance: they don't need to be walked and they can entertain themselves for hours at a stretch. Yes, I can see why some people would rather have a dog, but that doesn't mean you can't like cats too, I insisted. He didn't seem to believe me.
I gave him a chance anyway, and he gave me a chance, and readers, I married him. When we got engaged, I made clear to him that Demmy and I were a package deal. He consented to this, we all moved in together, and they achieved a certain detente. In his speech at the wedding, our Best Man said that he knew the relationship was serious when he heard my husband talking baby talk to the cat. My husband denies it to this day. ("I was using baby talk voice to call her a stupid ugly little beast, I swear!")
One month before we moved to Baltic Europe, I felt a lump near her ribcage. I took her to the vet, who said they'd take an x-ray while she was under anesthesia for her teeth-cleaning. When I went to pick her up, they'd shaved her belly and gone in to take out what they'd found on the x-ray.
The biopsy came back: cancer.
"We got it all, I'm sure of it," said the vet. You'll need to keep an eye on her, bring her back for x-rays again if you detect another lump. There's a little blur on the x-ray that we can't quite identify..." Gee doc, I'm moving to another continent, where I expect veterinary care to be about the standards of 'Medieval Barber', can you be a little more encouraging, please?
I couldn't think of what would be worse: having to put her to sleep before leaving for Europe, or going to Europe and having to put her down there if she relapsed. My husband tried to be sympathetic. He still didn't like Demmy, but he understood why I wasn't ready to give up on her. I decided to take the chance. She came with us.
No lumps came back. No ugly thoughts about Big Needles. Score one more lucky break for Demmy.
Fast-forward now through four years, two small children, and another international move. Once again, my mental health is under strain. Demmy blends into the furniture some days. She still has her routine: wake up the human, get breakfast, disappear; watch human leave; Human comes home! Meet human at door and pester her until dinner is served; disappear until miniature humans go to bed. Lather, rinse, repeat. During the summertime, she'll climb on my lap sometimes while we watch the Red Sox on TV. Otherwise, we could go through most of the day with five minutes' interaction, max. "Recumbent Feline Bibliotherapy" doesn't happen often with two preschoolers in the house.
Quality of Life: we haz it.
So the creature that was once a Beloved Source of Comfort was yet another entity that needs to be fed, watered, and cleaned up after. She had an edge over the kids: she doesn't usually wake me up in the middle of the night complaining of "bad crocodile dreams". She doesn't need clothing, shoes, or a college education. But when Mommy is working 45 hours a week and trying not to permanently scar two preschoolers, "low maintenance" is still maintenance.
A few months ago, I took a good look at her. She'd lost weight. She was drinking more water than ever. Her litter box was filling up faster, and she was missing it a lot. I felt around her rib cage carefully, when she would let me.
Lumps.
I was crying too much to make an appointment at the vet. I stalled and stalled for weeks. I did the math over and over in my head. This cat is fifteen years old. That's downright geriatric. Maybe it is her time after all.
When I finally took her in, they thought that nine pounds was a perfectly healthy weight. I tried explaining that this meant she'd lost one third of her body mass in a year. I told them about the cancer scare from six years ago. I told them about the water and the litter box. They agreed to blood tests.
Diabetes.
Treatable. Manageable. Still not great but at least it's not cancer.
Still, it brings up issues: Do you seriously expect me to give her shots? Twice a day???? I had visions of having to spend hours chasing her down, dodging and weaving around my kids with a needle in my hand. And having to climb into the rafters to keep the needles away from little hands. And oh, the ick factor of injections: would I have to wrestle with her, searching for a vein?
Then the ugliest question of all: how much is it going to cost? Do I have to add up how much her life is worth in terms of disposable income? Am I going to be the sort of jerk who puts her pet down for the sake of convenience? How many takeout lunches and lattes add up to keeping her alive?
It turns out that her insulin is not that expensive, and the single-use needles are just pennies apiece. I can take the used ones back to the vet for proper disposal. And she's gotten quite used to the shots - especially since she knows that food comes next. She's drinking less water, but she still misses the litter box on occasion. (When 900 years old you reach, pee as good, you will not, hm?) And she still gets weepy goop around her eyes, thanks to the injury she suffered when her mother and siblings were killed. She doesn't spend all day under my side of the bed. She even comes out to let the kids pet her once in a while.
And once again, this cat - who wasn't expected to live two more hours when we first found her - gets another lucky break. And I put off thoughts of The Big Needle for a while longer.
Here's the thing: I have never been around for the loss of a pet, not really. My brother's Beagle took her last trip to the vet when I wasn't home. The Irish Setter that was supposed to fill the void when my dad moved out went back to the breeder (because none of us were around consistently enough to properly housebreak her). The cats died when I was away for my sophomore and junior years of college. I've never had to make That Decision.
We found Demmy on Memorial Day weekend in 1993. I guesstimated her age at that point to be about two weeks. So I decided that her birthday, unofficially, would be Mothers Day. I feel as though I helped save her life fifteen years ago. I can't bear the thought of having to decide when to end it. Once again, I get a lucky break.
Welcome to the 21st Century!
Just to relive the high, on Tuesday I watched the Daily Show's Election Night coverage from the Tivo. The Obama victory really does renew my faith in Americans. Yes, he's getting more death threats than any other President-Elect in recorded history. And no, this is not the end of racism in America. But people took a look at the Republican ticket and (no disrespect to McCain) said, "President Palin? Aw HELL NO."
I guess they got tired of having undereducated zealots at the center of power. Seriously, "what I believe is God's will" is NOT the central principle of foreign policy for any nation that has gotten past witch-burnings and building walls for borders (oh, wait...)
So hey, now we can all look forward to a black man in the White House who isn't played by Morgan Freeman. Progess, it rocks.
Just to relive the high, on Tuesday I watched the Daily Show's Election Night coverage from the Tivo. The Obama victory really does renew my faith in Americans. Yes, he's getting more death threats than any other President-Elect in recorded history. And no, this is not the end of racism in America. But people took a look at the Republican ticket and (no disrespect to McCain) said, "President Palin? Aw HELL NO."
I guess they got tired of having undereducated zealots at the center of power. Seriously, "what I believe is God's will" is NOT the central principle of foreign policy for any nation that has gotten past witch-burnings and building walls for borders (oh, wait...)
So hey, now we can all look forward to a black man in the White House who isn't played by Morgan Freeman. Progess, it rocks.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
I Really Should Be in Bed Right Now
But jet lag is an ugly thing.
And politics is uglier.
In 48 hours, the U.S. election will, Buddha willing, be to all intents and purposes over. For better or for worse.
I've just sat through another ad linking Obama to some of the more controversial remarks made by his former pastor.
Wasn't that issue over and done months ago?
And would they mind terribly if we made an ad about the wacky witch-hunting dude praying over Sarah Palin?
As much as I want this whole mess to be over and done with, I am still afflicted with RedSoxNationitis: the fear of exuberant victory. I dare not be optimistic. I dare not express the hope of what would clearly make me deliriously happy. To speak of this joy would be to kill it in its cradle.
So I have to listen to the ugliness, the stupidity, and falsehoods, to keep me from getting too excited about the prospect of an Obama victory.
I can only take a few more days of this. Please, jet lag, knock me out for the worst of it.
Peace.
And wait 'til next year.
But jet lag is an ugly thing.
And politics is uglier.
In 48 hours, the U.S. election will, Buddha willing, be to all intents and purposes over. For better or for worse.
I've just sat through another ad linking Obama to some of the more controversial remarks made by his former pastor.
Wasn't that issue over and done months ago?
And would they mind terribly if we made an ad about the wacky witch-hunting dude praying over Sarah Palin?
As much as I want this whole mess to be over and done with, I am still afflicted with RedSoxNationitis: the fear of exuberant victory. I dare not be optimistic. I dare not express the hope of what would clearly make me deliriously happy. To speak of this joy would be to kill it in its cradle.
So I have to listen to the ugliness, the stupidity, and falsehoods, to keep me from getting too excited about the prospect of an Obama victory.
I can only take a few more days of this. Please, jet lag, knock me out for the worst of it.
Peace.
And wait 'til next year.
Friday, October 24, 2008
It's Hard Out Here for a Hick:
I have finally realized, after two weeks in China, what it is that's been bugging me all this time.
It's not that I can't read 90 percent of the street signs.
It's not the toilets that require a contortionist's skills to use.
It's not the ubiquitous guys with a cellphone in one hand and a ciggy in the other.
It's not getting stared at for being the weirdo ethnic minority.
It's this: I am not used to seeing buildings higher than ten stories anymore.
When I visited Tiananmen Square two weeks ago, I thought, "Wow, you could fit the entire population of The Island (where I live) in here, and everyone would still have room to swing a cricket bat 360 degrees."
That was weird. (I'm desperately trying to avoid saying "disorienting," in case you hadn't noticed.) But now that I 'm here in Shanghai, where any building under 30 meters tall is probably "historic" it's really hit me just How Effing Small The Island Really Is. You could not fit this city on The Island. You probably couldn't fit this neighborhood on The Island. Even the last City I lived in-- when I started this blog four and a half years ago -- was "historic" and had few buildings higher than the old imperial palaces (oh, and the Germans having bombed the crap out of it for a few years didn't help the real estate market much for about 50 years).
I don't consider myself a small-town kid just off the turnip truck. But anybody could get lost in this city. And I have been on The Island too long.
Fortunately, my employer has offered me a new contract at Headquarters, on the mainland, just one time zone away from where I am currently working. I'll start next summer. I can hardly wait.
I have finally realized, after two weeks in China, what it is that's been bugging me all this time.
It's not that I can't read 90 percent of the street signs.
It's not the toilets that require a contortionist's skills to use.
It's not the ubiquitous guys with a cellphone in one hand and a ciggy in the other.
It's not getting stared at for being the weirdo ethnic minority.
It's this: I am not used to seeing buildings higher than ten stories anymore.
When I visited Tiananmen Square two weeks ago, I thought, "Wow, you could fit the entire population of The Island (where I live) in here, and everyone would still have room to swing a cricket bat 360 degrees."
That was weird. (I'm desperately trying to avoid saying "disorienting," in case you hadn't noticed.) But now that I 'm here in Shanghai, where any building under 30 meters tall is probably "historic" it's really hit me just How Effing Small The Island Really Is. You could not fit this city on The Island. You probably couldn't fit this neighborhood on The Island. Even the last City I lived in-- when I started this blog four and a half years ago -- was "historic" and had few buildings higher than the old imperial palaces (oh, and the Germans having bombed the crap out of it for a few years didn't help the real estate market much for about 50 years).
I don't consider myself a small-town kid just off the turnip truck. But anybody could get lost in this city. And I have been on The Island too long.
Fortunately, my employer has offered me a new contract at Headquarters, on the mainland, just one time zone away from where I am currently working. I'll start next summer. I can hardly wait.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
So Sue Me...
One of my Constant Readers has gotten on my case for my lack of macro-blogging of late. Sorry. I've been up to my elbows in assorted work-related BS, mostly related to the fact that my boss -- who has to do my job while I'm gone this month -- suffers from a severe case of RTFM Syndrome, coupled with Chronic Cranial Rectumitis.
Oh yeah, that whole "being gone for a month" thing? I'm in China. My husband is participating in the International Mind Games Olympiad. Now that his part of the competition is over, we are going to tour the Middle Kingdom for the next two and a half weeks.
For someone who works in the travel industry, I actually get to do very little tourism myself. My work is more along the lines of "Oh crap, Joe Sixpack lost his passport" or "Professor LittleOleMan needs a medevac for his broken hip." It's nice to really get out and see what my clients are getting themselves into - even if it means falling into the occasional tourist trap.
This trip is my husband's lifelong dream. I was skeptical at first about coming here, but now I am very glad that I did. Getting here was murder (which is part of the reason for the long silence here) because of The Office but I finally got through to them that Mugs Needs A Break, BADLY, and I was going with their blessing or without it, and if my boss didn't feel like doing my work that was his problem, not mine.
Oddly enough, now that I am here, I genuinely don't give a sweet steaming pile of yak dung whether the place sinks or swims without me.
Okay, my 30 minutes of internet time are up. More fun and details later.
One of my Constant Readers has gotten on my case for my lack of macro-blogging of late. Sorry. I've been up to my elbows in assorted work-related BS, mostly related to the fact that my boss -- who has to do my job while I'm gone this month -- suffers from a severe case of RTFM Syndrome, coupled with Chronic Cranial Rectumitis.
Oh yeah, that whole "being gone for a month" thing? I'm in China. My husband is participating in the International Mind Games Olympiad. Now that his part of the competition is over, we are going to tour the Middle Kingdom for the next two and a half weeks.
For someone who works in the travel industry, I actually get to do very little tourism myself. My work is more along the lines of "Oh crap, Joe Sixpack lost his passport" or "Professor LittleOleMan needs a medevac for his broken hip." It's nice to really get out and see what my clients are getting themselves into - even if it means falling into the occasional tourist trap.
This trip is my husband's lifelong dream. I was skeptical at first about coming here, but now I am very glad that I did. Getting here was murder (which is part of the reason for the long silence here) because of The Office but I finally got through to them that Mugs Needs A Break, BADLY, and I was going with their blessing or without it, and if my boss didn't feel like doing my work that was his problem, not mine.
Oddly enough, now that I am here, I genuinely don't give a sweet steaming pile of yak dung whether the place sinks or swims without me.
Okay, my 30 minutes of internet time are up. More fun and details later.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
I finally figured out why I couldn't decide whether Rafael Nadal is Hot or Not. You see, being of distant Swiss heritage, I thought that I should be rooting for Federer. But I went through the same conflict over the French Open: Sure, Federer is a homeboy, but there's something about this Nadal guy...hmmmm. He's got that King Strider of Gondor thing going on with the hair, but something was just *off* that made me hesitate to declare outright that he is a hottie.
Then he did that thing where he pretends to nibble on the arm of the trophy, and WHAM, I got it: he has Tom Cruise beak.
It's only at a certain angle, but it's there.
And Tom Cruise makes me want to puke. On his shoes.
Oh, Rafa, it just was not meant to be.
Then he did that thing where he pretends to nibble on the arm of the trophy, and WHAM, I got it: he has Tom Cruise beak.
It's only at a certain angle, but it's there.
And Tom Cruise makes me want to puke. On his shoes.
Oh, Rafa, it just was not meant to be.
Today's Bad Mommy Moment is brought to you by PlayDate Lemonade... Gigi had a friend over this afternoon, and I offered the girls lemonade. I went to the kitchen to mix the stuff up (yes, it's powder, but it's sugar free and made with bottled water, so leave me alone) and couldn't find a suitable container designed for the purpose.
So what do I reach for, in a pinch?
Coffeemaker carafe. Krups 8-cup, to be specific. It was clean, it worked, they'll never know and I won't tell.
So what do I reach for, in a pinch?
Coffeemaker carafe. Krups 8-cup, to be specific. It was clean, it worked, they'll never know and I won't tell.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Sunday, May 11, 2008
How my Mothers Day Started: Woke up before the rest of my family, just at the break of day. Fed the cat while the coffee brewed. Sat on the balcony with warm, sweet, milky coffee and a cappuccino chocolate chip muffin, watching the ocean and reading a Dalai Lama book by the light of the rising sun. Between sips of coffee and bites of muffin, absorbed the interconnectedness and impermanence of all things.
Fast forward three hours...
"Mommy is going to the bathroom. Do NOT follow me!"
Fast forward three hours...
"Mommy is going to the bathroom. Do NOT follow me!"
Thursday, April 10, 2008
I have a TweetCloud!
Because I am a geek who spends too much time on her computer putzing around instead of actually writing to her friends.
But I have a TweetCloud! Check it out: http://www.tweetclouds.com/user_pages/mugs.html
Because I am a geek who spends too much time on her computer putzing around instead of actually writing to her friends.
But I have a TweetCloud! Check it out: http://www.tweetclouds.com/user_pages/mugs.html
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
I made a huge mistake.
At the beginning of my grandmother's steep decline into Alzheimer's, it was no longer advisable to call and tell her you were going to visit next week. Having become "unstuck in time," she would go to the lobby and wait for you that afternoon, and the following day, and so on. It was much better to call ahead to the nurses, let them know your plans, and surprise her. These unexpected delights gave her great joy.
I should have applied this principle with my daughter, who is three.
I told her that her grandparents were coming to visit soon (as in, two weeks from now). And later this year, she's going to have a nice long visit with them "in Boston" while Mommy and Daddy take a trip to China. (She can only conceptualize "China" because of "Dora's World Adventure".)
My daughter now tells me with every other breath that she wants to go "to Boston" now.
We're not going until October.
If I can last that long.
At the beginning of my grandmother's steep decline into Alzheimer's, it was no longer advisable to call and tell her you were going to visit next week. Having become "unstuck in time," she would go to the lobby and wait for you that afternoon, and the following day, and so on. It was much better to call ahead to the nurses, let them know your plans, and surprise her. These unexpected delights gave her great joy.
I should have applied this principle with my daughter, who is three.
I told her that her grandparents were coming to visit soon (as in, two weeks from now). And later this year, she's going to have a nice long visit with them "in Boston" while Mommy and Daddy take a trip to China. (She can only conceptualize "China" because of "Dora's World Adventure".)
My daughter now tells me with every other breath that she wants to go "to Boston" now.
We're not going until October.
If I can last that long.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
This week has been a bear, but at least work-wise, it's over. The Island takes the day off tomorrow to eat fishcakes on hot cross buns and to fly kites.
I'm pretty sure that if you went back in time 2000 years and explained these customs to the guy from Nazareth, he would scratch his woolly head and say, "What?"
And don't get me started on how we'd explain this to him... TweetJeebus said it best: couldn't they re-enact the whole 'taking care of the sick and feeding the hungry' bits instead?
I'm pretty sure that if you went back in time 2000 years and explained these customs to the guy from Nazareth, he would scratch his woolly head and say, "What?"
And don't get me started on how we'd explain this to him... TweetJeebus said it best: couldn't they re-enact the whole 'taking care of the sick and feeding the hungry' bits instead?
Monday, March 10, 2008
Is anybody else as seriously creeped out by this picture as I am? I mean, aside from the "Crush all hu-mans!" aesthetic, does it not look like something out of V for Vendetta (the good version)?
When did "scaring the crap out of people" start masquerading as journalism, or as good governance?
Leave the dystopian realism to Alan Moore, and let us have our Bill of Rights back, thank you very much.
When did "scaring the crap out of people" start masquerading as journalism, or as good governance?
Leave the dystopian realism to Alan Moore, and let us have our Bill of Rights back, thank you very much.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
Stupid Customer Tricks: My colleagues were discussing the frustrations we sometimes encounter dealing with people, over the phone or in person, who really should not be let out of the house, much less anywhere within a mile of an airport.
Today's example: Customer didn't get the service she wanted. She had not followed the instructions on the website. Therefore, she declared, we were racist.
There is a leap in logic there that escapes me.
Am I stupid, or is she racist?
Today's example: Customer didn't get the service she wanted. She had not followed the instructions on the website. Therefore, she declared, we were racist.
There is a leap in logic there that escapes me.
Am I stupid, or is she racist?
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
The "Mom Job"? When I first saw this headline, I thought, "Oh, Tupperware sales, or part-time 'Mystery Shopping' right?" Then I kept reading. Didn't know whether to scream or start saving.
I was raised by a mother who simply never allowed me to entertain the idea that there was something I couldn't do because I was female. I ended up at a women's college in New England and absorbed many valuable life lessons about body image and patriarchy and yadda yadda yadda. And for many years, I have taken the position (with varying degrees of smugness) that elective cosmetic surgery was a waste of time and money. If you can afford cheek implants and collagen lips, and haven't been disfigured in an auto accident, you would do much better giving that money to charity. Cosmetic surgery, I thought, is just another way of pummeling the self-esteem of otherwise intelligent people (male and female) by forcing them to comply with artificial standards of physical beauty. Let's face it, a large bottom will get you ostracized in Los Angeles, but admired in West Africa. Why subject yourself to needles and knives? Surely, I thought, I would never be so vain or shallow.
Then I bore and breast-fed two children.
The feminist (and sensible person my mother raised me to be) knows jolly well that my reshaped body parts are badges of honor, my patches proclaiming membership in the Mommy Gang.
The part of me that wants my old clothes to fit properly, and resents having to spend half a paycheck on new foundation garments, wistfully looks at the possibilities of having my old body back, but new and improved.
Then I realize that needles and knives are involved, and oh yeah, money that would be better spent on college tuition, and I come to my senses.
Thanks Mom. Good job.
I was raised by a mother who simply never allowed me to entertain the idea that there was something I couldn't do because I was female. I ended up at a women's college in New England and absorbed many valuable life lessons about body image and patriarchy and yadda yadda yadda. And for many years, I have taken the position (with varying degrees of smugness) that elective cosmetic surgery was a waste of time and money. If you can afford cheek implants and collagen lips, and haven't been disfigured in an auto accident, you would do much better giving that money to charity. Cosmetic surgery, I thought, is just another way of pummeling the self-esteem of otherwise intelligent people (male and female) by forcing them to comply with artificial standards of physical beauty. Let's face it, a large bottom will get you ostracized in Los Angeles, but admired in West Africa. Why subject yourself to needles and knives? Surely, I thought, I would never be so vain or shallow.
Then I bore and breast-fed two children.
The feminist (and sensible person my mother raised me to be) knows jolly well that my reshaped body parts are badges of honor, my patches proclaiming membership in the Mommy Gang.
The part of me that wants my old clothes to fit properly, and resents having to spend half a paycheck on new foundation garments, wistfully looks at the possibilities of having my old body back, but new and improved.
Then I realize that needles and knives are involved, and oh yeah, money that would be better spent on college tuition, and I come to my senses.
Thanks Mom. Good job.
Because my daughter really needs another football-headed ethnic role model. And I need another cheap babysitter in 25-minute installments.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Oh thank God, I actually remembered my password.
Okay, I went into hibernation for a while there. The Boy learned to walk and I've been struggling to catch my breath ever since.
I have a longer rant in mind, but I'll save it for tomorrow.
Today my son is 15 months old. His hair is the color of gold from the Crayola Big 64 Box, but when it's wet, it's the color of copper wire. He can walk and run and get up and down stairs. Anything I don't want broken, I pretty much have to nail to the ceiling. He likes cupboards, books, and his sock monkey ("Monkey Ramirez", with dreads and Red Sox ballcap, courtesy of my brother, who like me, married into Red Sox Nation). Favorite activities include pounding things, emptying shelves and cupboards, and pulling hair.
He can say "HiDooey," which we're pretty sure means, "Hi, how are you doing?" and play peekaboo.
His big sister is turning into a real little girl, with strong opinions and a gift for mimicry.
It's supposed to be Slow Season at work, but my boss has been off training for over a month now, and I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. He's back in a week. I never thought I'd be glad to see him.
Anyway, I'm back. More excuses tomorrow.
Okay, I went into hibernation for a while there. The Boy learned to walk and I've been struggling to catch my breath ever since.
I have a longer rant in mind, but I'll save it for tomorrow.
Today my son is 15 months old. His hair is the color of gold from the Crayola Big 64 Box, but when it's wet, it's the color of copper wire. He can walk and run and get up and down stairs. Anything I don't want broken, I pretty much have to nail to the ceiling. He likes cupboards, books, and his sock monkey ("Monkey Ramirez", with dreads and Red Sox ballcap, courtesy of my brother, who like me, married into Red Sox Nation). Favorite activities include pounding things, emptying shelves and cupboards, and pulling hair.
He can say "HiDooey," which we're pretty sure means, "Hi, how are you doing?" and play peekaboo.
His big sister is turning into a real little girl, with strong opinions and a gift for mimicry.
It's supposed to be Slow Season at work, but my boss has been off training for over a month now, and I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. He's back in a week. I never thought I'd be glad to see him.
Anyway, I'm back. More excuses tomorrow.
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